Seraphina glides into the room like she owns every inch of air she takes. The door closes behind her with a soft click, but the sound of it seems to snap the whole place into focus. For a second the room feels smaller — the light harsher, the smell of blood and sweat more honest — because she’s there and she doesn’t waste a breath.
Her eyes sweep the room the way a surgeon’s hand finds a wound. They land on Darren first. He’s slumped, bound, shirt ruined and dark with blood. The bruise swelling over his eye looks like someone stamped a fist into him. Seraphina’s mouth tightens; the line of her brow is the only thing she allows herself to show. Then her gaze slides to me and, just for a breath, there’s something like calculation and something like pity mixed in that look.
I shift my shoul
